


Bite of the Wolf

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [40]
Category: Airwolf, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Prison breakout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In England, Azkaban receives a visit from a mysterious black and white helicopter while in the US, McKean receives a near identical visit from the same helicopter.  With a group of violent, desperate convicts suddenly free and on the run, questions arise as to where this helicopter came from and whether it has anything to do with Team One.





	1. The Black Helicopter

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fortieth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Double, Double, Toil and Trouble".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. I also do not own _Airwolf_ , a TV show from the 1980's from which I have discreetly borrowed from before. This story includes characters and concepts from _Airwolf_ , but you don't need to be familiar with the show.

0112 ZULU  
AZKABAN PRISON  
BLACK SEA BRITISH ISLES

In the years following the Second Wizarding War, Azkaban Prison had seen more changes than it had in the prior three centuries of its existence as Britain’s primary magical prison.  No longer were the prisoners guarded by Dementors, slowly driven insane by the creatures’ very presence.  No longer were prisoners left to wallow in filth and decay, though prison conditions had yet to improve to the point of being even remotely acceptable by any objective Muggle standards.

Aurors now guarded the prison and house-elves served the prisoners’ basic needs for food, water, and clean clothing.  At the elves’ quiet insistence, the prisoners were also provided cheap, but clean and relatively decent beds in addition to clean robes for daily use.  In turn, the house-elves anchored their own magic to the prison in order to prevent any escapes.  But nothing is perfect and only one crack is required to pierce a seemingly impervious defense.

The shadow that appeared out of the night went almost unnoticed as it approached the miserable, windswept island, hidden by magic and shifting seas.  The craft’s engines were whisper-soft, the sound of the blades blending into the roar and crash of the ocean against the isle’s rocky coast.  The Aurors on duty never even looked up as the black and white shape ghosted over the prison’s roof.  A low, wolfish rumble was the only sound it made as it hovered in place.

A _hiss_ came from one side as a door opened and a man inside slipped out, gun in hand.  The figure wore a gray uniform with a snarling wolf patch on one shoulder: a rabid winged wolf under a sheepskin.  A solid black helmet hid his face as he crept into the prison complex with a single destination in mind.

The inmates regarded the newcomer with a mix of disdain and fear; though his clothing was Muggle, his bearing and attitude were those of a dangerous, ruthless killer.  When he reached a specific cell, he inspected the two wizards inside.  Beneath the helmet’s visor, lips curved in a vicious smile.  “Rastaban and Rudolphus Lestrange?”

“Who wants to know?” the elder of the two sneered.

The man lifted his gun, pointing it through the cell door.  “Either you’re who I’m looking for or you’re in the way,” he growled.

Faced with the Muggle weapon, the two unarmed wizards quailed and folded.  “Yes,” the younger confirmed, watching the weapon.

“Good.”  The gun lowered, slipping back into its holster.  The figure slipped something out of an equipment bag on his belt and quickly separated the thing in two.  One went over the top cell door hinge and the other went on the lower hinge.  “Step back,” he ordered; the wizards obeyed, watching as the man attached leads to the small blocks and stepped back himself.  “Don’t look,” was the warning, two seconds before there was an explosion and the cell door fell inwards.  The figure stepped forward, surveying his handiwork for an instant.  “Come with me.”

The Lestranges hurried out, unwilling to argue with any one, Muggle or not, who freed them from the miserable blood-traitors.  The sound of the explosion had finally attracted attention from the Aurors, several of whom rushed into the cell blocks, calling to each other as they searched for the intruder.

Even as they searched, the helmeted man guided the Lestrange brothers towards the roof.  Just as the escapees reached the final staircase, two Aurors caught up with them.

“Stop!” the lead Auror yelled, angling his wand.

Two gunshots rang out, dropping the Aurors.  Without even breaking stride, the escaping group hurried onto the roof.  The Lestranges nearly balked at the Muggle craft hovering in place, but the uniformed man pushed them inside, then hopped up himself.

The black and white helicopter lifted upwards as more Aurors raced onto the roof, hurling spells and yelling orders to stop.  Not a single spell even marked the ‘copter’s white belly as it flew away, lazy and unconcerned by the Aurors’ fury.  A wolf’s howl shattered the night and the helicopter screamed skywards, vanishing in less than a second.

* * * * *

1157 ZULU  
MCKEAN PRISON  
UNITED STATES PACIFIC COAST

The American magical prison lurked just off the California coast, on an island commonly referred to by Muggle and Magical alike as Alcatraz.  To the Muggle population, Alcatraz was a tourist attraction, a former prison and military base, but to the wizarding population of North America, it was a prison that housed every wizard convicted of a crime, with spare facilities for those considered too dangerous to house closer to home during trial.

As a joint effort, McKean Magical Prison was staffed by Aurors from the United States, Canada, and Mexico; the duty was widely regarded as a punishment or for the dregs of the respective Auror Departments.  Since the prison was located in the United States proper, the American magical community assumed the lion’s share of management and jurisdiction over the inmates, as well as much of the cost, but all three countries valued McKean for its ability to successfully contain the very worst of their communities.

As the beginnings of false dawn touched the sky, the sound of whirling blades reached Alcatraz.  A sleek black and white helicopter flitted low to the water, ghosting around the island’s dangerous reefs without an ounce of fear or hesitation.  When it reached a particular point, a pulse leapt from its nose to touch what looked to be a solid cliff.  Then it tipped forward and flew through the cliff, completely unharmed as it passed through the powerful wards that kept McKean hidden from the Muggles.  Once within the wards, the helicopter angled higher, towards an area once used for prisoner transport, back in the days when the American wizarding community had been experimenting with new ideas.  The research had quickly fallen prey to those who maintained a rigid status quo within the wizarding world; thus had ended one of the few efforts to modernize the magical community.  But the landing pad remained.

Three wheels extended from the helicopter’s nose and stubby wingtips and the chopper touched down, though the blades on its back continued to whirl.  From the helicopter’s right side, a man emerged, clad in a gray uniform, with a black helmet and visor on, and a snarling wolf patch stitched to his uniform’s shoulder: hidden inside sheepskin, a rabid wolf snarled and flared its wings.  The man drew his gun as he ran to the open door and entered the prison, skidding down the stairs to a predetermined area.

When he reached the two cells, side-by-side, he regarded the two wizards within, amusement on his face under the visor.  “Julian Anderson and Loki?”

Anderson studied him carefully, then smirked.  “Here to spring us?” he inquired mockingly, spreading his hands.  “Or are you here to take revenge?”

“You trust a Muggle?” Loki demanded of the former Auror.

The watching figure was even more amused as Anderson laughed harshly.  “I hear that rat Onasi is using a fireleg these days, so you don’t have to be a Muggle to use a fireleg.  Not anymore.  Blasted blood-traitors.”

Loki’s expression turned considering.  “Well?” he inquired silkily of the man outside the two cells.  “What shall it be?  Freedom?  Or death?”

“Today?  Freedom.”  Two gunshots shattered the locks.  “Move it.”

Even as the two prisoners pushed their way out of their cells, three Mexican Aurors rounded the corner, screaming obscenities in their native Spanish and pointing their wands at all three men.  Without even flinching, the uniformed man fired three times, then waved his charges up the stairs.  More shouts rose behind them, but it had been so long since the prison’s landing pad had been used that the three escapees reached it without encountering any other guards.

Anderson fumbled with the helicopter’s door, but managed to pull it open with a soft _hiss_ from the door seal.  Loki followed him into the black craft’s interior and their rescuer brought up the rear.  The rescuer exchanged a solemn nod with the pilot, then the pilot pulled back on the controls, lifting the helicopter off the ground.  The co-pilot tapped the controls to raise the landing gear, then the black chopper turned away from the prison and flew away, vanishing into the sunrise without a single spell impacting its metal skin.

* * * * *

Harry strode onto Azkaban’s roof, his expression a thundercloud as he inspected the end of the escapees’ path.  Two Aurors dead of gunshot wounds and two of the most notorious remaining Death Eaters on the loose.  And no one, _no one_ , had heard anything until the intruders blew up the cell door.  Though he was tempted to rake the prison guards over the coals for their carelessness, he was quite sure they were already doing it to themselves without his help.  The two dead guards had been well-liked with grieving families that needed answers.

“Sir.”

Harry turned, one brow arching at the waving parchment under his nose.  “What’s this?” he asked, taking it.

“Report from the American Embassy, sir,” the Auror reported.  “McKean’s been attacked by a black and white Muggle flying thing, just like here.”

The veteran Auror frowned, reading the parchment carefully.  “If it’s the same one, they’re bloody fast,” Harry growled.  “Azkaban and McKean in one night?”  The names of the escapees from McKean were unfamiliar, but Harry had little doubt that they were dealing with the same offenders.

“Minister Shacklebolt wants you to be our lead in the investigation, sir!”

Harry regarded the Auror, making a note to break him of the ‘sir’s when he got back.  “See to it that our liaison to the Muggle Prime Minster requests autopsies for the two slain Aurors,” he instructed.  “They were murdered with a Muggle weapon; let’s see if the Muggles can help us find the killers.”

Without waiting for a protest, Harry swept away.  He had an International Portkey to catch.

* * * * *

Harry glanced around the American headquarters of their Magical Congress, impressed by the imposing columns, golden phoenix statues, and the small memorial statues in the center of the main hall.  The subtle black and bronze color scheme was a nice touch as well.  Looking around, Harry spotted larger statues, representing the first twelve American Aurors, marching around the outer edges of the hall.  The massive clock-like Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer, looming at the top of the center columns, seemed a bit over the top, but it was not Harry’s place to quibble with how the Americans chose to view their Muggle neighbors.  It was, however, his place to find his American and Canadian counterparts for a meeting in…he checked his watch, sighing as he ran a hand through his messy raven hair…five minutes ago.

* * * * *

“Senior Auror Potter, good to see you again,” one of the Aurors inside the meeting room exclaimed, striding forward with his hand extended.

Harry assessed the man: short, almost too short to be an Auror, dark eyes, and very light blond hair.  “Senior Auror Simmons,” he replied, shaking the other wizard’s hand firmly.  “I haven’t seen you since that incident with Goyle.”

Simmons sniffed, remembering that particular event with very little fondness.  At the time, he’d quietly cheered the British Auror on as he laid claim to the Calvin children; later, after Parker’s team had saved his daughter’s life, he’d understood Parker’s reaction much better.  “Yes,” he agreed in a clipped tone before changing the subject.  “Have you met our American colleague before?” he inquired, turning Potter towards the final wizard in the room.

Harry surveyed the man.  He was tall, on par with Harry’s height or perhaps a smidgeon taller, and lean with receding and slightly wavy dark brown hair, a weathered, hatchet-faced profile, cool blue eyes, and a demeanor that bespoke his commitment to thoroughness and professionalism.  His black robes and boots were impeccable and professionally tailored, the marks of a wizard looking to rise higher in his department, and his hands rested on a leather attaché case standing upright on the conference table.

“Mitchell Bruck, I presume?” Harry asked, extending his hand to the wizard.

“Yes,” the wizard replied, his accent crisp, clear, and precise.  “It is good to meet you, Senior Auror Potter.”

“Harry, please,” Harry urged, smiling as Simmons pulled out a chair for Harry before returning to his own.  Glancing over at the blond Auror, the Brit questioned, “Any ideas from your Division’s elite units?”

“Unit,” Simmons corrected, a sour expression on his face.  “Locksley screwed up royally and their commander yanked their Auror badges on us.”

Harry’s brows shot to his hairline.  “What _happened?_ ”

Simmons shook his head.  “Later,” he murmured, darting a glance at Bruck, a look in his eyes that Harry couldn’t quite interpret.

“Shall we begin, gentlewizards?” Bruck inquired, gesturing to the back of the room, where aerial crime scene reconstructions of both Azkaban and McKean hovered.  Harry and Simmons shifted in their seats so they could look at the diagrams and Bruck began to brief them on the situation.  “The Mexican Ministerio de Magia has authorized our Department of Aurors to act on their behalf in this investigation.”  A slight nod towards Simmons.  “Canada, as you can see, Auror Potter, has dispatched a member of their elite Auror Squad.  And, of course, you yourself are joining us from Britain.”

“Based on the timing,” Harry observed sourly, glaring at the Azkaban model, “They hit Azkaban first, then your McKean Magical Prison.”

“Both attacks happened during the slow shifts,” Simmons observed thoughtfully.  “Late night for Azkaban and early morning for McKean.”  At Harry’s startled look, the blond wizard smirked.  “I read the initial Azkaban report while you were en route, Auror Potter.”  He leaned forward, his gaze intent.  “Auror Bruck, how long has it been since McKean’s landing pad has been used?  Judging from the reports from McKean, no one even remembered it still existed until these wizards used it.”

“Officially, the last time it was used was well over fifty years ago,” Bruck replied.  “However, given that we are confident that a _Muggle_ flying craft was used at both prisons, I am…hesitant to conclude that we are, in fact, dealing with wizards.”

“Why?” Harry asked bluntly.  “Wizards aren’t _excluded_ from using technology and many of us in Britain know how to drive.”  He left out whether or not said wizards drove _well_.  “Unless there’s been a mass breach of the Statute of Secrecy, how would _Muggles_ even _know_ about our prisons, much less how to access their weak points.”  Cocking his head, Harry added sarcastically, “Not to mention, why would _Muggles_ help _Death Eaters_ escape?”

Simmons snorted.  “Or our two, either,” he agreed.  “Julian Anderson wouldn’t win any friends on the Muggle side of the fence, what with his hatred for all things Muggle and his nasty habit of targeting helpless _children_.”

“Children?” Harry demanded, his eyes wide with horror.

Dark eyes went even darker.  “He kidnapped my daughter and another Auror’s daughter as well.”  Harry hissed in fury.  “From what _I_ hear, most Muggles would rather trounce scum like Anderson, not help him.  Our last wizard’s no innocent either; he came bloody close to breaching the Statute of Secrecy two Halloweens running.  Attacked a roomful of Muggles both times, _with_ magic.”

Bruck scowled at this information.  “The only name we have for him is Loki.”

A tired nod from Simmons.  “We spent weeks trying to track his real identity down, but we came up empty, Auror Bruck.  He laughed in our faces the whole time, so we finally tried him as Loki and tossed him in McKean, so he could laugh all he wanted in there.”

“Even so,” Bruck took control again.  “I contend that a Muggle helicopter is far harder to master than a mere Muggle car.  Even in the Muggle world, such skill takes specialized training to acquire.”  He shrugged, deliberately nonchalant.  “In light of _that_ , I must advise expanding our focus to any potential Muggle suspects.”  He let that hang, then turned towards Simmons, his eyes narrowing.  “And there _has_ been a massive breach of the Statute of Secrecy, as _you_ should well remember, Auror Simmons.”

Harry stiffened, as did Simmons.  Bruck could only be referring to one group.

“ _Your_ Division has spent the last three years _coddling_ a group of Muggles, instead of _Obliviating_ them, as you should have!” Bruck spat contemptuously at the rigid Canadian Auror.  “These Muggles are _certainly_ in a position to know about our prisons and possess sufficient authority to access the records and blueprints needed for this attack.”  Arrogance reeked.  “As highly skilled members of Muggle law enforcement, I would not doubt that one or more of them is capable of flying the Muggle craft seen at both prisons.”

“But why?” Harry insisted.  “Why would they do something like this?”

Bruck’s attention did not waver from Simmons.  “Revenge is usually a fair motivator, is it not, Auror Potter?  I have often found it so.”  Simmons’ expression crumpled in sheer misery and he slumped in his seat.

“Revenge for what?” Harry pressed, looking between his fellow wizards.

It was Simmons who croaked out an answer.  “Revenge for how we treated them.”


	2. Magic Lost

“Hard to believe it’s been three weeks,” Ed observed to the figure on the bed, trying to keep his voice even and casual.  “You missed Izzy’s first attempt to say ‘Clark’.”  A wry grin.  “Actually, it was more like ‘laaar’ and she was gurgling too much for Clark to understand her, but Soph did.”

He smiled, briefly, then sobered as he regarded the still, deathly silent man.  Three weeks since his brother had been shot by his very late, very _ex_ girlfriend.  Three weeks since they’d nearly lost two men for the price of one.  Three weeks since normal had vanished as soon as he heard Giles scream Roy’s name over the comm.  No.  As soon as he’d heard Wordy scream…

* * * * *

_Spike and Ed barreled past the parked cruisers in their SRU truck, trying to get back in time to help their teammates take Powers down and rescue Roy.  As Spike hit the brakes, Wordy’s frantic yell of “_ SARGE! _” rang out over the comm.  Spike threw the truck in park, scrambling after Ed as the team leader charged towards Suzanne Powers’ house, fear growing with every step.  As he rammed through the open door, he hardly registered Sam supporting Giles as the Auror fairly howled denial and grief._

_Ed stalked through the house, rage and stark terror growing at the trail of blood that led down the hallway towards when he could hear Lou and Wordy.  He shoved the door open with his shoulder and froze._

_Greg was glowing scarlet, his left hand clamped firmly to Roy’s neck.  Magic swirled around the two men, keeping Lou and Wordy back.  Ed swallowed hard as he realized Roy was completely and utterly still under the scarlet light wrapped around him; his eyes were open, frozen in an expression of both pain and surprise, and his chest wasn’t moving.  But the blood that_ should _have been pouring from his brother’s chest…wasn’t.  It was as if time had stopped for Roy, while still moving forward for the rest of them._

_When Ed’s eyes fell more on Greg, he blanched.  Under the scarlet light, Greg was turning gray, as if he was draining himself dry in the effort to keep Roy suspended in time; his features were set and determined, but Ed could hear his boss’s breathing rasp more and more the longer he held the connection.  Wordy and Lou were pale as ghosts and just as helpless as Ed felt.  Sound from behind him jerked Ed around and he scrambled out of the way of an incoming group of Healers._

_It took three Healers to forcibly break the magical connection between Greg and Roy, then they whisked both men away before Team One could voice any protest.  As they went, Ed felt something indefinable shudder and die._

* * * * *

A Healer entered the room, her wand in hand.  Ed watched as she checked over the patient, then wrote several notes down on the parchment in her arm.  “How is he?” the constable asked once she was done.

Susan Travis turned, shaking her head.  “No difference, I’m afraid Aur… _Constable_ Lane.”

Turning back, the two of them regarded the man on the bed.  Scarlet still swirled around him, his expression frozen, and his appearance, right down to the part in his hair, identical to how he’d looked three weeks earlier.  Even his clothing was the same, though his jacket and shirt had seen far better days.  Ed thought the pants and boots might be salvageable, but Roy might not _want_ any reminders of this particular experience when he woke up.  _If_ he woke up…

The only visible change between the Roy of three weeks ago and the Roy on the bed was that the hole in his chest was gone; the Healers had laboriously coaxed their magic through the time freeze to repair the damage to Roy’s chest, back, and internal organs, a process the scarlet magic had permitted, but only just.  The worst part was that they didn’t know if Roy was still alive or not; so long as he was frozen in time, the Healers couldn’t properly evaluate him or treat him.  Even worse was the thought that Greg’s intervention might have caught Roy in that single instant between life and death.  It was a thought that had tormented Ed more than once over the last three agonizing weeks and he knew Greg tortured himself daily with it, especially as more and more time slipped by and Roy showed no signs of recovery.

And Wordy…Ed suppressed another sigh, thinking of Wordy’s reaction to their boss’s last second intervention as well as the current state of affairs between his two best friends…

* * * * *

_Ed herded Greg and Wordy into the locker room, locking the door behind them without a qualm.  Once inside, he released Wordy and snapped, “Whatever you got to say, Word, say it.  Right here, right now.”_

_“Oh, I’ll say it all right,” Wordy snarled, in no mood to play nice.  Jabbing his finger into his Sergeant’s chest, he hissed, “You stubborn, selfish idiot!  You half_ kill _yourself and for what?  We don’t even know if it_ worked _!”  Greg flinched.  “You almost left Lance and Alanna alone without_ any one _to take care of them!”_

_“Wordy…”_

_“Shut up, I’m not done,” Wordy spat at Ed, pacing angrily before turning on his boss again.  “What were you_ thinking?Were _you thinking?”  Ed braced himself as Wordy stopped a moment, panting as his eyes turned wild.  “You_ know _we don’t have enough magic for stunts like that, Greg!  We’re_ Squibs _, not wizards!  I passed out just healing a gash on Spike’s hand!  You tried to stop_ time _!_ Time! _What, you think you’re Superman or something, Greg?  You can do_ anything _you want, physical limits be_ damned _, ‘cause you’re Greg Parker of the SRU and_ that’s _the kinda genius you are?”_

_“Wordy,” Ed cut in, his eyes darting between his silent boss and the fuming brunet constable.  “It might’ve been reckless, but…”_

_“But_ nothing! _” Wordy roared, cutting Ed off.  “I know he’s your brother, Ed, but we could’ve lost_ both _of them.  Think about_ that _, why don’tcha!”_

_Without waiting for either man to reply, Wordy threw up his hands in frustration, stormed to the locker room door, threw the lock open, stomped out, and_ slammed _the door behind him.  Though Ed flinched, it didn’t escape his notice that Greg didn’t._

_“Greg?”_

_Greg sighed heavily, tugging his arm free from Ed’s supporting grip.  He limped a little as he walked to a bench and sat down; Ed’s heart twanged: Greg was limping on the leg he’d injured during the confrontation with the Smith sisters, he looked older and grayer than any man his age should’ve.  Once he was sitting, Greg looked up, his expression more than a little lost.  “It’s gone, Eddie.”_

_“What’s gone?”_

_A twitch that might’ve been a smile.  “My ‘team sense’, the gryphon vision and hearing…all of it, Eddie.”_

_Ed froze, staring at his boss.  The pieces slid together in his mind.  “Your magic’s gone.”_

_Hazel eyes slipped closed and Greg nodded once.  “I think so.”_

_It should’ve been good news, but as Ed regarded his friend, all he could see was Greg’s limp and the fact that all the life seemed to have gone out of his eyes, leaving little more than a shadow of a man.  And a team that was tearing itself to bits in the fight over Greg’s decision to save Roy’s life._

* * * * *

Ed sighed heavily, regarding his brother.  Travis had slipped away, leaving the two alone so Ed could say a few last words before heading out.  “It’s a mess and a half, Roy,” Ed remarked, meeting his brother’s frozen eyes.  “I’d take all of Greg’s magical issues back in a heartbeat, if it meant he looked more alive than dead.  And the longer you’re down, the worse things get.”  He hesitated, studying Roy hopefully, then rose and walked to his brother’s bedside.  One hand dropped down, squeezing Roy’s shoulder; the scarlet magic parted just enough for Ed’s hand to touch and grip, then gently pushed Ed away after a second.

* * * * *

At the barn, Ed changed into his uniform in silence, not meeting Wordy’s eyes at all.  Truth was, he still hadn’t decided which ‘side’ to come down on.  If Greg _hadn’t_ done what he had, Roy would be long dead.  But…  Roy might _still_ be dead and Greg _had_ risked his life with no regard for his teammates or his _nipotes_.

Oddly, the kids had come down on their uncle’s side, arguing his case as fiercely as if they’d been in that house themselves, fighting the battle Greg wouldn’t.  It was clear that they weren’t even a little bit mad at Greg for his reckless, dangerous stunt, _regardless_ of how it eventually turned out.  Ed couldn’t figure out their angle any more than he could wrap his head around Wordy’s, though the latter’s was easier to intellectually grasp.  After all, Wordy had seen firsthand what happened to Squibs who tried to use too much of their magic, even for ‘small’ tasks; freezing time around Roy had been _anything_ but small.

Before Ed could leave the locker room, Wordy spoke up.  “How’s Roy?”

The team leader felt his shoulders slump as he turned back.  “The same.”

Wordy frowned in confusion.  “Shouldn’t it have worn off by now?”

Ed shrugged, leaning against an empty locker.  “In theory.”  Wordy’s eyebrows shot up.  “They keep checking, but, somehow, the magic’s regenerating itself.  It let them in enough to fix Roy’s chest and a really nasty cut on his face, but now they can’t even touch him.”

Wordy whistled low.

Ed swallowed and added the punch line.  “I can, though.”  Wordy’s gray eyes fixed on Ed, widening.  “Just for a second or two,” Ed finished, feeling himself slump down even more.  “Not enough to make this…whatever it is…stop.”

“Do they have any ideas?  Can they drain the magic away?”

The team leader laughed, bitter scorn ringing.  “I was there when they tried to drain it; I think it zapped them with an electric shock or something.  Roy never even twitched, but half of the Healers ended up with their hair standing on end.  Let’s just say they didn’t try that little trick again.”  Ed studied the other man, noting lines on his face where there hadn’t been any before.  “You okay?”

Wordy’s return laugh was just as bitter.  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”  Without waiting for a reply, Wordy let his fist thud against his open locker.

“Still mad, huh?”

Not looking up, Wordy closed his eyes.  “I don’t know.  I _should_ be; he could’ve _killed_ himself with that stunt; but then I look at him and…”

“You see how bad he’s doing,” Ed finished, earning a silent nod.  “I suppose,” Ed mused, “it doesn’t help your case that his _nipotes_ are madder at you than him.”

A hoarse chuckle.  “They’re _proud_ of him, Ed.  They’re _proud_ he did that, risked his life like that.  I don’t get it; how can you be proud of someone who almost left you hung out to dry without even _thinking_ about it?”

Ed shrugged rather than respond.  When it became clear Wordy had said all he was going to say, the team leader slipped out of the locker room and trekked up towards the briefing room.

Inside, he found his boss, working his way steadily through a stack of white paper.  The Sergeant didn’t look up as Ed ghosted in, being as quiet as possible.  It had become a bit of game between the two men for Ed to try and avoid Greg’s notice while Greg pretended he didn’t hear Ed until the last second, but the twinkle in the Sergeant’s eyes when he looked up had always given away the usual ‘victor’ in their game; Ed didn’t have the heart to stop, even with Greg’s ‘team sense’ and enhanced hearing gone.  Though he _did_ wonder how gone they were, especially when, without looking up, Greg asked, “How’s Roy?”

“He’s the same,” Ed reported, studying his boss as closely as he could get away with before changing the subject.  “Wordy might be cooling down a bit.”

Greg’s pen stilled, then started up again.

Undeterred, Ed leaned forward.  “If he keeps cooling down, might be able to pull things together a bit more; Lou and Spike were talking more yesterday than they did all last week.”

“And Jules and Sam?”

One shoulder hiked.  “They never saw you or Roy, so they don’t know how close it was.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

Ed rapped the table hard enough to make his Sergeant glance up.  “I did, Wordy did, heck, even Lou did, but they didn’t _see_ it, so they don’t get it.  ‘Specially since you were back at work by the next day.”

The Sergeant had looked like death warmed over, but he’d been back at the station and cheerful about his desk-duty punishment.  It hadn’t been until days slipped by with no sign of Roy coming out of his time freeze that Greg’s attitude and health had taken a downturn.  But by then, the initial sickly gray tinge to the Sergeant’s skin had faded and he hadn’t looked nearly as bad.  Privately, Ed suspected Jules and Sam were more than a bit too pleased about their Sergeant losing his ‘team sense’; as a result, they weren’t _interested_ in knowing how close their boss had come to dying, something Ed was far from happy with them about.

Greg returned to his paperwork without comment; Ed mentally sighed and dropped the ongoing effort to engage his friend.  “Anything on tap for today?”

“Training and workouts unless we get a call,” Greg replied, signing another form.  “Commander Holleran did mention that he wanted to talk to you and Sam about something.”

“I’ll corral Sam and head in there,” Ed decided, pushing himself up.  He hesitated, searching for something to say.

“Eddie.”  He looked down into tired hazel eyes.  “Say ‘hi’ to Roy for me.”

“Copy.”

As he trailed away, Ed’s shoulders slumped.  His team was falling apart again…and he didn’t think there was any way to save it this time…

* * * * *

Ed strode into Commander Holleran’s office with Sam on his heels.  He almost halted at the sight of Toth waiting for them, but kept his gaze and stride even.  The constable kept his eyes on his commander as he stopped.  “You wanted to see us, sir?”

“Yes,” Toth purred.  “I would like an explanation for your hot call of three weeks ago.  The one with your brother, Constable Lane.”

Ed looked to Holleran, who nodded at him to reply, then shifted his attention to Toth, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.  “When we got the call, we didn’t know Roy was involved,” he explained.  “Didn’t find out Roy was there until he managed to get to his phone and send an SOS to his partner.”

The sniper drew in a breath, then continued, “Jules had already made contact with the subject and we’d interviewed several neighbors and made our initial sweep of the house’s perimeter.”  Both hands spread as Ed continued to explain.  “The subject gave Roy her own pet nickname, so even the neighbors didn’t know his real name.”

The psychologist’s expression was skeptical.  “And _you_ did not recognize _her_ name, Constable Lane?”

Ed’s shoulders twitched and his expression flinched, ever so slightly.  “Roy and I…we were getting better, but…”  He drew in a breath, wishing he didn’t have to admit this to _Toth_.  “We were…kinda rocky…”

“ ‘Were’?” Toth questioned, his expression startled.  “I was unaware that your brother had died of his injuries, Constable Lane.”

The sniper’s expression turned blank.  “He hasn’t.  Not yet.  He’s in a coma, docs don’t know if he’ll ever wake up.”

The psychologist was taken aback and sympathy shone in his eyes.  “I hope your brother _does_ recover,” he murmured.  He looked over at Holleran and inclined his head.  “Acceptable.  I’m satisfied that Team One was unaware of the personal nature of this hot call until they were on-scene and fully involved.  The transcript confirms that Sergeant Parker acted appropriately once the discovery was made.”

Ed’s attention returned to his commander, sensing something else just below the surface.  Holleran sighed, reached down, and pulled out two folders from his desk.  “Suzanne Powers’ parents are suing Sergeant Parker and Constable Braddock for wrongful death.”

“She shot a cop!” Sam blurted.

“According to her parents, she shot her abusive boyfriend,” Commander Holleran countered.

Ed growled, fists balling.  “It was staged,” he snapped.  “Every _bit_ of that call – and her _house_ – was staged to make Roy look like he snapped, attacked her, and tried to kill her.”

“Forensics agrees,” Holleran interjected; off to the side, Toth nodded his own agreement.  “They’ve managed to reconstruct almost the entire call, with the exception of the last few minutes, after the Scorpio shot.  The parents are trying to jump on the fact that Constable Braddock wasn’t sequestered as he should have been and neither was Sergeant Parker.”

Ed’s growl turned to a furious, subvocal snarl.  “Roy was on the ground, bleeding out from a through-and-through,” he snapped.  His eyes shifted to Toth and he added sarcastically, “Unless you’d prefer my team left a _cop_ to bleed to death?”

“No,” Toth replied firmly, shaking his head before picking up a briefcase the two SRU cops hadn’t noticed; he set it down on Commander Holleran’s desk, then removed two sheets of paper from the interior.  Commander Holleran offered the psychologist a pen, which he accepted, then Toth scrawled his signature on both pages, presenting them to Holleran with a flourish.  He returned the pen, clicked his briefcase closed, and departed with a quiet, “Gentlemen.”

Holleran reclaimed his officers’ attention with a cough.  “Constable Lane, I’m authorizing you to act on Sergeant Parker’s behalf.  You and Constable Braddock will attend a meeting with Powers’ parents this afternoon; lawyers for all parties will be present.  Turn the forensics report over to the parents’ lawyer, answer any questions the parents have about the hot call, and return here.  Not a _word_ to Sergeant Parker; I’d prefer it if he never found out about any of this.”

“Can’t hide it forever,” Ed pointed out.

“Then I’ll hope for _after_ your brother wakes up,” Holleran concluded firmly.  “Get going; I’ll handle Parker.”


	3. A Common Enemy

The four wizards regarded the man at the head of the table; he still wore the gray Muggle uniform with a snarling wolf patch on the shoulder, but his stance was as tall and proud as any pureblood.  Cool blue eyes returned the convicts’ regard with little emotion; light blond hair was close cropped and neatly groomed.

“Welcome to my headquarters, gentlewizards,” he began, his expression deliberately laid back.  “While you are here, you are expected to comply with any orders my people give you, particularly should you wander into either the aircraft hangers or the research labs.”

Rudolphus Lestrange sneered.  “I ain’t taking orders from some jumped up Mudblood and his Muggle-loving _peons_!”

The wizard paused, inspecting Rudolphus from head to toe.  “I can see why your family magic permitted Wordsworth to take charge of your House, Squib or no.”  Rudolphus flushed scarlet.  “ _He_ has far more nobility in his little finger than you do in your entire body.  And thrice as much honor.”  A calculated and icy cold smile.  “Nor is his magic tainted, as yours surely is,” he finished with a disdainful sniff towards what was left of Rudolphus’ Dark Mark.

Rastaban roared at the insult to both his brother and their Dark Lord; he lunged, only to freeze as a wand pointed between his eyes.

“Do not mistake my willingness to use Muggle tools as a sign of my attitude towards the Muggle world or as an indicator of my magical ability,” the blond wizard spat into the silence.  “Our world is more at risk from the Muggles with each passing day and I will not rest until that threat is properly dealt with, but I will _not_ make the mistake so many of my predecessors have made; the _fatal_ error of ignoring Muggle tools, weapons, and tactics.  They are far superior to wizards in the art of making war and they _should be_.”

The Lestrange brothers hissed angrily at this.  “Enough,” Julian Anderson growled.  “Let the wizard speak.  He _did_ free us, so I’m willing to give him a fair hearing.”

Though the last wizard, Loki, looked less than enthused, he made no move against their hosts, who were now covering the Lestrange brothers with both wands and guns, their expressions cold and threatening in defense of their leader.

A low chuckle came from the blond wizard, who lowered his wand and offered Anderson a brief bow of approval.  “Well said.”

Anderson held up one finger, stilling the wizard.  “I would, however, like your name before this…charming…discussion goes further.”

The wizards in the room tensed at the disrespect of their leader, but relaxed when the blond wizard threw his head back, laughing.  “Very well,” he agreed, callous amusement in his eyes.  “I am Doctor Charles Henry Moffet.  And _you_ are Julian Anderson, former Auror for the Canadian Auror Division.”  One hand waved towards the Lestrange brothers.  “Rudolphus and Rastaban Lestrange, formerly of the Dark Lord Riddle’s inner circle of Death Eaters.”  Moffet’s hand moved towards Loki.  “I know your true name, ‘Loki’, but I will respect your wish to hide behind the Norse God of Mischief and Trickery…for now at any rate.”

Loki bowed deeply.  “My thanks, Dr. Moffet.”  Sharp green eyes came up, a flicker of curiosity in them.  “In what field, may I ask?”

“Engineering,” came the crisp reply, “I specialize in aircraft design.”  A shark’s grin flashed.  “I designed and built the aircraft used in the…operation…two nights ago.”  Moffet pointedly ignored the Lestrange brothers, who were rapidly turning purple with rage, and shifted his attention to Anderson.  “Of the four of you, _you_ are my greatest gamble.  If you attempt to meddle with any of the young ones on this base, I shall let my rank and file choose your death.  It will not be a short or…pleasurable…death.”

For a long moment, the two wizards stared at each other, one sociopath to another.  Then Anderson inclined his head in acceptance and submission.  Moffet studied him several moments longer, then inclined his head in satisfaction.

“Now,” Moffet stepped back to encompass all four wizards.  “As I was saying, the Muggles are the undisputed masters in the art of war and we wizards would do well to heed an important lesson in their history.”

“Which is?” Rastaban jeered.

“Be wary of waking a sleeping giant,” Moffet replied simply.  “During Grindelwald’s War, known as World War II to the Muggles, the Japanese attacked an American harbor in Hawaii.  Far from being demoralized, as the Japanese had hoped, the Americans were enraged by this unprovoked attack and immediately joined the war against Japan and its European allies, Germany and Italy.  It’s fair to say that the Americans turned the tide of the entire war, both with their soldiers and their vast industrial complexes.”

Moffet swept his gaze around at his four guests, but the Lestranges looked unconvinced.  “June 1942, six months after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.  The Battle of Midway, a naval contest notable for having been among the first to be waged almost entirely by Muggle aircraft.  This feat was accomplished by utilizing Muggle technology less than thirty years old: the aircraft carrier.  The Japanese navy sought to completely annihilate what remained of the American navy in the Pacific Ocean.  Instead, the Americans managed to reverse the planned Japanese ambush, sinking four Japanese aircraft carriers while losing only _one_ of their own.  In this one battle, well over 3,000 soldiers died.”

Though the wizards looked outraged and appalled by the numbers, the Lestrange brothers were still sneering and haughty.  Moffet gave them a thin lipped smile  “August of 1945.  Japan stood as the final remaining member of the Axis powers, given the end of the War in Europe and Germany’s surrender in May of 1945.  Even so, the Japanese refused to surrender, vowing to make the Allies pay in blood for every meter of ground they took.  Thus, the Americans made the decision to use a brand new piece of technology in lieu of invading Japan.  Two atomic bombs were dropped on Japanese cities.  Those two cities ceased to exist, utterly.  The final approximate death toll was just short of 200,000.  Most, I am certain, were Muggles, but I would not be surprised if a number of wizards were also amongst the dead.”

Finally, Moffet got his expected reaction as the wizards all blanched at the casualty count – and the possibility of fallen wizards.  His expression grave, Moffet drove his point home.  “Should we provoke them sufficiently, they can turn these weapons of war upon us.  Gentlewizards, the Muggles truly possess a vast and impressive arsenal of not only weapons, but ships, aircraft, men, and _tactics_ , all of which are devoted _solely_ to _war_.  Compared to _their_ wars, our own are small and trifling, hardly rising to so much as an insurrection and just as easily dealt with.”

Moffet shook his head.  “If it came down to a direct contest between magic and technology, we would _lose_ , gentlewizards.  Therefore, we _must_ turn their greatest weapons against them before we can restore our people to their rightful station in the world.”  The four wizards watched nervously as Moffet paced a moment.  Abruptly he spun.  “However!  All of that is of secondary consideration at the moment.  We have a more…immediate…threat to deal with.”

“What?” Rudolphus growled.

“A group of Muggles and Squibs who have managed to attain Auror status here in Canada.”

Anderson’s lip curled.  “Ah, yes,” he drawled.  “Madame Locksley’s precious Auror Strategic Response Unit.”

“Since your arrest, they have added another unit of Muggles and a Muggle detective to their ranks,” Moffet reported.  “Of late, the two Muggle units have not been on any sort of active duty, something I hope will continue, and the detective has been hospitalized.  He is not expected to survive his injuries.”  In truth, Moffet knew quite a bit more than he was saying, but he needed his new recruits to view Team One and their ilk as obstacles to their continuing freedom.

“Good,” Loki spat.

Moffet shook his head solemnly.  “On the contrary, I expect that, in time, more Muggles will be added to the ranks and our world’s security will be forever compromised.  Once the Muggles understand us, they will no longer fear us and they will deal with our people at their leisure.  A disaster, particularly if these Muggles inspire our world’s government to abandon the Statute of Secrecy.”  He restrained a smile at the terror his guests were unable to hide at such a prospect.

“For now,” Moffet continued, “the four of you _will_ remain here while my agent ensures the Muggles are held responsible for your escape.  Once they have been charged, I will arrange for the four of you to have your revenge on them – in person.  We _must_ ensure that this ill-advised experiment is _never_ repeated again.”

Eager looks were exchanged between the four fugitives.  Even the Lestranges were salivating at the prospect of up close and personal revenge…particularly if their half-brother should be one of the Muggles.  There were no more attempts by the wizards to defy their host.

* * * * *

Ed tossed Sam a look, signaling that he would take the lead in the meeting with Powers’ grieving parents.  Sam nodded back, a relieved expression on his face; Ed resisted the urge to point out that if ever Sam was elected as team leader, he’d have to deal with things like this himself.

Inside the room, he spied the lawyers, all of them wearing three-piece suits.  The parents’ lawyer was wearing the most expensive suit and the two lawyers for Greg and Sam were trading surprised looks: they knew one of their clients wasn’t present.  Ed stalked in, his frame stiff and indignation practically wafting off him.  Sam followed, head high and shoulders back as he ignored the quiet sob from Powers’ mother.

One of the lawyers extended his hand.  “Alex Rems, Constable…”

“Lane,” Ed supplied, shaking the black-haired man’s hand.  He turned, indicating Sam.  “This is Constable Braddock.”  With a flourish, Ed pulled a sheet of paper from the folders Holleran had supplied and offered it to the lawyer.  “I’ve been authorized to represent Sergeant Parker for this meeting, Mr. Rems.”

Rems took the sheet, reading it over carefully, then passed it off to his female colleague.  Sharp, shrewd eyes lifted to Ed’s.  “I see that, Constable Lane.  You are familiar with the facts of this case?”

“I’m on Parker’s team,” Ed rumbled.  “I was part of this call.  Commander Holleran supplied me with the information on the lawsuit.”

“You were there when my daughter died?” the older lady cried, surging up.  “Did _you_ kill her?  Did you _execute_ my daughter?”

Sam flinched, drawing the woman’s attention.

“So it was _you_ ,” she nearly shrieked before her husband pulled her back in her seat.

“No, Alice, we have to let Ryan do the talking, sweetheart,” the gray-haired man murmured to her.

The third lawyer regarded the SRU constables as if he was regarding a pair of beetles.  “Ryan Lemmings, officers,” he introduced, his dark eyes cold and angry.  “Representing the Powerses.”

“Well,” the female lawyer put in with a smile, “Shall we begin?”

Ed sat down, his expression tense; Sam yanked out the chair next to his team leader, a blank look on his face.  The lawyers also found their seats, but before any of them could speak, Mrs. Powers spoke up again, her voice trembling.  “So,” she spat, “My daughter called for help and just because her _louse_ of a boyfriend is a cop, you killed her.”

The team leader didn’t let himself flinch.  Instead, his expression hardened and he leaned forward.  “Detective Roy Lane,” he began, smirking inwardly as the woman blanched, “had enough drugs in his system to drop an elephant, never mind a skinny, lanky detective who occasionally forgets to eat while he’s on a case.”  He let that hang, then nailed his point home.  “They found the drugs in the lasagna in the subject’s kitchen as well as in an empty glass next to the plate of lasagna.  All the subject had that afternoon was salad.”

“She was our _daughter_ ,” Mrs. Powers wailed.  “Not ‘the subject’.”

“Constable Lane, that’s enough,” Lemmings growled, right before he demanded, “Is Roy Lane related to you?”

Ed looked up, an incredulous look on his face, then he smirked and leaned back.  “Nice try.  Yes, he’s my brother, but my team wasn’t aware he was Powers’ boyfriend until he managed to get to his phone and send his partner an SOS.”  A shrug, meant to be nonchalant.  “By then, it was way too late to switch SRU teams.  Things were heating up and moving too fast for that.”

“But you remained on duty,” the lawyer purred.

“Sergeant Parker sent myself and another constable to interview a close friend of Miss Powers.  We weren’t even on-scene when my team made entry into the house.”

“Ahhh, yes,” Lemmings mocked.  “Your Sergeant permitted Detective Lane’s partner to join the entry team, thus leading to the circumstance of Constable Braddock corralling the partner instead of being sequestered, as per protocol, after he _executed_ a young woman in her home.”

Ed lifted a hand before Sam could speak.  Then he reached over, plucking the transcript away from the two lawyers on the SRU side of the table.  “Detective Onasi was added to the entry team so Constable Young wouldn’t be entering the property solo,” Ed drawled.  “Both detectives have trained with my team before, so they _do_ have authorization to join Team One in the field when necessary.”  He flipped through the transcript, then glanced at the Powerses, clutching each others’ hands and staring at him accusingly.  “You might want to let your lawyer hear this part alone,” he advised, his finger on the transcript.

“No,” Mrs. Powers gritted out.  “Whatever you have to say, say it!”

The sniper plastered a blank expression on his face as he read out Jules’ final contact with Suzanne Powers, including her entire rant as well as her response to finding out that Jules _knew_ her boyfriend.

Sam’s announcement that he had the solution and Roy’s position.

The parents were trembling horribly, but Ed refused to stop.  “4:32 PM,” he announced, “Subject: If I can’t have Lònaid, neither can he!”  He stopped, fixing them with an angry expression.  “After which point, the subject fired Detective Lane’s service weapon into his chest, a through-and-through shot which entered just below his heart.  Constable Braddock fired the Scorpio shot at the same time.”

He left out the frantic calls for EMS, the desperate struggle to keep Roy alive, and everything else.  The sniper merely leaned back in his chair and capped his explanation.  “Detective Lane was transported to the hospital and remains in critical condition, under a medically induced coma.”  The constable shifted his attention up to the Powers’ high priced lawyer.  “Any other questions, Mr. Lemmings?”

When the lawyer said nothing, Ed pushed the forensics report across the table, followed by the copy of the transcript he’d been reading from.  Try as he might, he couldn’t dredge up any sympathy for the parents whose daughter had _shot_ his brother, simply because Roy didn’t want to be a Wiccan.  His eyes flicked sideways to their lawyers, both of whom looked appalled, by what, the team leader didn’t care.  “We done?”

Mute, Rems nodded.

* * * * *

Ed kept a pleasant smile in place as he strode through the courthouse, Sam on his heels.  Oh, there might be more trouble from Powers’ parents, but he doubted it.  She’d shot a cop; regardless of anything else her folks might dredge up, Powers had still shot a cop while in the scope of an SRU sniper.  It didn’t get more open and shut than that.

The team leader waited until he and Sam were completely out of sight of both the security cameras and all the other visitors to the courthouse before he made his move.  In one fluid motion, he pinned Sam to the wall with one arm, glaring at the younger and shorter man with unvarnished distaste.

Sam jerked in surprise and started to struggle against Ed’s grip.  Ed ignored that, leaning into the other man’s face.  “I don’t care about you and Jules breaking regs.”  Sam froze.  “I _do_ care that you’re gonna drag the Boss down _with_ you when you get caught.”

Sam opened his mouth to lie and Ed’s glare intensified.  “Who says we’re gonna get caught?” he demanded instead.

“Well,” Ed drawled insouciantly, “ _I_ caught you, so there’s that.”  The team leader’s eyes went colder.  “You two drag this team down and I will burn you,” he threatened.  “Neither of you will ever be able to find another job in law enforcement, understand?”  Ed let his expression lighten and he released Sam, tapping his chest lightly.  “We clear, Braddock?”

Seething resentment glared back at Ed.  “Crystal,” Sam gritted out, pushing past Ed and down the stairs.

Ed let the blond sniper go without comment.  He’d never tell Sam that _he’d_ been the one to advise Greg to make Wordy their go-to acting team leader for the foreseeable future.  Sam _was_ the better choice, true, but Ed didn’t believe in rewarding people who broke the rules…even though he _wasn’t_ going to turn them in.  That would put Greg at risk and Ed valued his team too much for that.

Whistling to himself, Ed strolled down the stairs and twirled the truck keys in his left hand.  Some days, being the team leader wasn’t fun…others…he wouldn’t trade it for the _world_.


	4. Following the Evidence

The three investigators reconvened in the MACUSA headquarters, each of them toting considerably more parchmentwork than they had during their first meeting.  As before, Bruck led the meeting, his sharp, precise words cutting rapidly to the heart of the matter.

“Auror Simmons, what have you discovered about the Muggle firearm used at McKean?” he inquired briskly.

“Five rounds fired,” Simmons reported without scanning the report again; he’d memorized the information.  “The two that hit the cell door locks were unusable, but the three recovered from the slain Aurors can be used for comparison.  That’s being done now, through Muggle law enforcement.”

“Are our suspects aware of the evidence?” Bruck demanded.

The Auror shook his head.  “Totally different areas, Bruck,” he explained.  “The Strategic Response Unit doesn’t have much contact with forensics in the course of their normal duties.  Even if a hot call goes wrong, it’s usually investigated by a civilian agency referred to as SIU.”

“Very well,” Bruck conceded.  “Anything else that you have uncovered?”

Simmons inclined his head.  “Like you said at our first meeting, McKean’s landing pad hasn’t been officially used in over fifty years, since 1955 to be precise.”

“Unofficially?” Harry pounced.

The blond Auror shrugged.  “Unofficially, it was used for the next thirty years or so by the guards as a convenient Quodpot field.  Then a Quodpot ball exploded over the Superintendant’s head and he shut it down.  Had wards set up to alert him if any one tried to sneak back up there, so they found somewhere else to play.”  Consulting the parchment at last, Simmons added, “He retired in ’01, so figure the wards probably faded about a year or so after that.”

“But by then,” Harry observed, “No one really remembered the old landing pad.”

“About sums it up, Potter,” Simmons concurred.  “It’s still on the blueprints for the place, though, so our suspects could’ve rediscovered it rather easily.  And since no one remembered it, no one was guarding any of the access areas adjacent to the pad.”

“Thank you, Auror Simmons,” Bruck remarked, turning to Harry.  “Auror Potter?”

The British Auror raked a hand through his hair.  “Two Azkaban guards were also shot and killed,” he reminded his colleagues.  “We had the bullets removed by the Muggle government for examination, so we can probably have them compared to the bullets from McKean.  Beyond that,” he sighed heavily.  “Some sort of explosive device was used on the cell door.  We’ve got what was left behind, but my people have no idea how to analyze it and we didn’t want to tip the Muggles off about the attack on Azkaban.  I have the evidence secured if you two have any ideas.”

“And the attack route?” Simmons asked curiously.

“The roof,” Harry returned bluntly.  “No style or finesse needed there; the Azkaban guards screwed up and paid for it.”

Bruck nodded thoughtfully.  “Well,” he murmured, “I suppose that leaves me.”  Attention snapped to him.  “There _was_ one piece of evidence at McKean that was not initially disclosed to us,” he rumbled.  “I’ve demanded an official reprimand for the Auror involved, but at least we _do_ have the evidence now.”  He deposited a Muggle cellular phone on the table.  “This was discovered by a Mexican Auror on the landing pad and likely dropped by one of our suspects as they fled.”

Harry poked at the device cautiously.  “What do we know?”

“Nothing so far,” Bruck admitted.  “It appears to be goblin made, so we will need assistance from Gringotts to solve the mystery.  I have, in the past, done my account manager a few good turns, so I will call in a favor with him.”

“Good luck,” Simmons grunted, eyeing the phone.

“However,” Bruck added smoothly, “Given that only members of the Auror Strategic Response Unit are known to carry such phones, I believe we _must_ focus our investigation on them, to clear them or not, as the case may be.”

Though neither Harry nor Simmons were pleased with the idea, they could find no solid arguments against it.

* * * * *

“You’re investigating _Team One_?” Giles Onasi exclaimed, staring at Simmons in pure betrayal.  “For Merlin’s sake, _why_?”

“ ‘Cause the American’s got a point, Onasi,” Simmons replied bluntly.  “Team One _does_ have a grudge against us, even moreso after what happened to Roy.”

Onasi stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.

“We don’t have the info back on the Muggle rounds, but they sure _look_ like the same ones you use for _your_ gun and _you_ told me that your gun is the same type of gun as the guns Team One use.  And Potter says an explosive was used at Azkaban; Team One would have access to explosives, easy.”

“And what about the helicopter part?” Onasi demanded angrily.  “ _Parker_ sure isn’t gonna fly, not unless one of his guys was on the line, and _I’ve_ never seen any of ‘em fly those things, anyway.”  Drawing in a deep breath, he added, “And what happened to Roy wasn’t any one’s fault except that Wicked Witch of the West girlfriend of his.  Team One has no reason to blame _us_ for what happened to my partner.”

“The Healers couldn’t save him,” Simmons countered quietly.

Onasi looked away.

“What?”

Giles shook his head.

“Giles, what is it?”  Simmons leaned forward, examining his onetime Junior Auror rookie closely.  “Talk to me,” he pressed quietly as his rookie refused to look at him.

“No one else,” Giles finally hissed, his expression deadly serious.

Simmons straightened, turned, and flicked a privacy ward up.  Turning back, he looked Giles in the eye and promised, “No one else, I swear.”

The younger man nodded.  “Roy’s not dead.”

Simmons froze.  “What?”

“Not yet, anyway,” Giles babbled.  “Parker managed to do _something_ ; he’s frozen in time.  The Healers think they’ve fixed the damage, but the time freeze is still active and no one can get it to stop.  I told Sergeant Gamboli that Roy’s in a coma, too medically fragile to be moved or seen, and Madame Locksley has him listed as dead in his Auror file to keep any one from sneaking in and _actually_ killing him.”

A low whistle rang out in the small office as Giles’ flow of words stopped.  “So much for Parker being a Squib,” Simmons muttered.

Onasi didn’t smile at the joke.  “He is; nearly died himself doing it, so most of his team is mad at him right now.  There’s a couple other things, but I can’t tell you about them.”  Grimly, Giles finished, “Listen, Simmons, I know the evidence is pointing towards them, but _they didn’t do it!_   They’re too busy putting their lives and their team back together for that.”

Simmons nodded.  “And Roy?”

The younger man slumped down again.  “I don’t know,” he muttered, “They’re tryin’ stuff, to break the time freeze, but nothing’s working so far.”

Standing, Simmons squeezed his young friend’s shoulder.  “Hang in there, Giles,” he urged.  “And I’ll keep what you said in mind, but we _have_ to find these fugitives and whoever helped them before anyone else ends up dead.”

* * * * *

Harry frowned thoughtfully; their liaison to the Muggle Prime Minster had relayed a request from the Muggle scientists to actually _talk_ to him…or another Auror…rather than simply forwarding the forensics results.  The wizard straightened his Muggle tie and idly adjusted his suit’s cuff links as the lift he was inside traveled upwards.  Except for his wand holster hidden in one sleeve, he was dressed completely Muggle, thanks mostly to his interaction with Sergeant Parker and company; during his last visit to Canada several months earlier, his wife had teamed up with Jules Callaghan and Shelley Wordsworth to force him into a Muggle clothing shopping spree.

The lift dinged and Harry stepped out, turning towards the Muggle waiting for him.  Before he could speak, the Muggle did.  “Agent Potter?”

“Yes.”

The bland-looking man gestured for Harry to follow him, then turned around to walk down the hallway.  Harry fell into step behind the man, unsure if he was dealing with someone who knew about magic or not.  He wasn’t worried about it; in addition to _clothes shopping_ , Team One and their Auror liaison had given him a crash course in Muggle police work.  He’d been particularly intrigued by the forensics – and delighted when Scarlatti introduced him to several TV shows _just_ about forensics.  He was no expert, but the young wizard was more than confident he could hold his own.

“We’ve completed the autopsies you requested, Agent Potter,” the Muggle announced without looking at Harry.  “Ballistics comparisons found no matches in the database, but we can check any suspect weapons against the rounds.  Were any shell casings recovered at the scene?”

“None so far,” Harry replied.

The man finally turned his head.  “You may want to have your people double-check, then.  Rounds are from a 9mm, semi-automatic hand gun.”

“Understood,” Harry agreed, making a mental note.  “Have you found anything else?”

His host paused, mid-step, then continued.  “Possibly.”  He led Harry into a large, cold room; Harry swallowed.  He wasn’t unfamiliar with morgues, but that didn’t mean he liked them.  He took in the sight of the Azkaban guards on the stainless steel tables, each respectfully covered with a white cloth.

The medical examiner turned as the two men entered, rising from behind an older-looking Muggle computer at his desk; Harry peered at it curiously.  “Ah, you must be Agent Potter,” the white-haired gentleman remarked, extending his hand.  As Harry shook his hand, the elder man continued, “Quite an interesting case you’ve presented me… _quite_ interesting.”

“In what way?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowing.

The medical examiner walked to the first guard, pulling back the sheet to reveal a chest that had been stitched closed following the autopsy.  The bullet wound in the center of the guard’s chest had black all around it and Harry’s eyes narrowed farther, a frown appearing on his face.  “That’s not right,” he observed before the examiner could speak.  “This wasn’t a point-blank range shot.”

“Quite so,” the examiner agreed with a nod.  “While the rounds recovered appear to be standard 9mm rounds, I suspect that is not the case.”

“Not?” Harry pressed.

“No,” the other man confirmed.  “Something has been used to enhance the bullets that killed both of these men.  Not something I’ve encountered before, Agent Potter, but the evidence is unmistakable.”

“Is there anything further you can tell us about how these men were murdered?” the bland man who’d greeted Harry questioned, his eyes intent on Harry’s face.

Harry considered, taking the time to examine the gaping chest wound himself.  “Would a standard 9mm round cause this type of entry wound or is it…larger than normal?”

The examiner blinked at the question and the bland man stepped forward, his interest in the answer clear.  “Doctor?”

“Distance is always a factor in the size of entry wounds,” the doctor informed them.  “However,” he leaned in, prodding at the body.  “I believe I would agree that this entrance wound is, indeed, larger than I would expect.”

Harry debated, then decided.  “Is this entry wound consistent with a standard law enforcement Glock 17?”

Both men gave him sharp looks, but Harry refused to twitch.  The bland man’s expression was studied…neutral.  The medical examiner prodded a bit more at the entry wound on the body they were standing around, then shook his head.  “No,” he replied firmly.  “The rounds are 9mm, yes, but, no, I don’t believe this type of injury could be caused by the sort of weapon typically carried by law enforcement.”

Harry frowned, shifting back on his heels.  “Doctor?”

The examiner looked up, his bushy white brows rising in a clear question.

Choosing his words with exquisite care, Harry’s voice was slower than normal.  “If you were to _solely_ examine the rounds fired and base your opinion on a cursory examination of these men, would it appear that they _could_ have been killed with Glock 17s?”

“If you are asking me to falsify…”

“Not at all,” Harry cut in quickly.  “No, Doctor, I have another reason for asking.”

The bland man and the examiner traded swift looks, then the bland man inquired, “You believe that your investigation is being influenced in a certain direction?  Perhaps towards the wrong suspects?”

Harry debated, then lifted one shoulder.  “That’s a fair assessment.”

The medical examiner was mollified by this.  “Well, then…”  He considered the body on the table, thinking through Harry’s question.  After a minute, he nodded once.  “ _If_ I were to be as sloppy as _that_ , then, yes, Agent Potter, I believe your scenario _would_ be plausible.”

Harry blew his breath out, debating his next move.  Risky, yes, but if his fledgling suspicions were correct…then…  The evidence he’d just been presented needed to be under lock and key, as soon as possible.  Or…  His eyes came up.  “I hope I’m wrong,” he said bluntly, “But if I’m right, then we _cannot_ lose this evidence.”

The bland man’s return nod was sharp, approving.  “I’ll see to it, Agent Potter.  We’ll ensure that there are backup copies of the autopsy reports and that our computer technicians take detailed images of the recovered rounds.  We’ll also test them further, see if we can figure out what enhanced them.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.  “And if you could provide me with a report that only covers the recovered rounds, that would be great.”

“ _Not_ the additional details?” the medical examiner inquired, a disapproving look on his face.

“Doctor,” Harry returned, “The additional details would tip my hand and put the evidence you’ve uncovered at risk, particularly if it _does_ turn out that the investigation is being…influenced.”

“Is there anything else you would have us look into?” the bland man broke in.

Harry shook his head.  “Thank you, but I’ve got this from here.”  He straightened, then turned back, emerald eyes fierce.  “If I’m wrong, Doctor, I’ll give you a full apology for sidelining your discoveries.”

“And if you are right, young man, I will apologize for questioning your decision,” the medical examiner returned.

As Harry left, the two men left behind traded looks again.  “Well?” the bland man asked.

“I would say he doesn’t know what caused this,” the examiner replied, gesturing to the body before covering it again.  “But whatever _is_ going on, Agent Potter is playing a very dangerous game.  Let us hope that neither he nor the people he is trying to protect get burned…”


	5. Dominos Fall

Harry frowned as he knelt in the small corridor/stairwell area where the two Azkaban guards had been shot.  While he wasn’t completely familiar with how Muggle firearms worked, he’d decided to start his search for the missing shell casings from the approximate position where the shooter had been.  With that in mind, Harry cast a number of detection spells, searching for metal or spell residue.  To his surprise, both detection spells came back empty.  Well, bugger.  No wonder none of his people had found anything before.

Grumbling, Harry cast a swift _Lumos_ , lighting up his wand tip as he started from one wall and worked his way outwards, scanning for anything out of place.  The guards left him alone; he’d given _stern_ orders that he was only to be interrupted if the Muggle craft was spotted or if the end of the world was upon them, whichever happened _last_.

Carefully, methodically, Harry combed the ground for the shell casings the Muggles had said should _be_ there.  It was as he reached the semi-doorway between the stairwell and the prison corridor that he spied a glint out of the corner of his eye.  Hope and anticipatory dismay clenched his heart as he swept over to the glint, but there they were!  Just beyond the first casing, he spotted the second, gleaming just as innocently.  The Auror hissed in triumph as he collected the shell casings and departed to have them examined as thoroughly as possible.

* * * * *

When Harry arrived in the room the MACUSA had set aside for the prison investigation, he was more than a bit dismayed to see that Simmons’ face was utterly expressionless.  The Canadian Auror did not rise to greet Harry nor did he offer the same cheerful demeanor that the British Auror had observed during his prior meetings with his fellow investigators.  Cautious, Harry entered the room and took his seat, studying Auror Bruck closely.  _He_ looked much the same as ever and once Harry was in the room, the American Auror quickly cast a set of privacy wards.

“Who would like to begin?” Bruck inquired.  “Or shall I?”

Simmons grunted, but said nothing.  Harry lifted his hand.  “I’ve received the ballistics report from the Azkaban attack,” he announced.  “No match was found in the database, but the Muggles have informed me that if we find a suspect weapon, it can be checked against the recovered bullets.”

“What kind of bullets?” Simmons questioned, his eyes narrow, but his expression still blank.

“9mm,” Harry reported calmly.  “Standard law enforcement issue, but I seem to recall that America doesn’t have the same laws as England in this area.”

“Quite correct,” Bruck agreed.  “Nor does Canada, but this country _is_ the best location to obtain Muggle firearms, both legal and not.”  The Auror nodded thoughtfully.  “Also, I understand that a goodly number of firearms use the 9mm rounds.  An excellent point, Auror Potter.”  The American considered, then looked at Harry.  “Was anything else found by the Muggles?”

Harry offered up a crooked grin.  “That’s all, I’m afraid.”

Bruck turned towards Simmons, but the Canadian Auror waved him forward.  “Very well,” Bruck agreed, pulling a sheaf of parchment from his briefcase.  “As planned, I spoke with my account manager at Gringotts and obtained a report on the suspect phone discovered at McKean.”

“They told you who it belongs to?” Harry questioned in surprise.

Bruck’s smile was thin.  “I suspect I’ve traded away my firstborn, but yes, they did.  The phone belongs to one Kevin Wordsworth.”

Harry stiffened.  “He’s related to the Lestranges,” he pointed out, hating himself even as he spoke.  “Their younger half-brother.”

“And he’s on Team One,” Simmons grated out, finally showing his colleagues how upset he was.  His expression twisted in ill-concealed fury.  “Team One was responsible for arresting both Julian Anderson and Loki.”  Leaning forward, he added, “The rounds from McKean have been matched by the Canadian Police Department’s forensics unit; they came from Ed Lane’s service weapon.”

Harry’s brows shot up; if the bullets from McKean were _anything_ like the bullets from Azkaban, then either Lane’s service weapon wasn’t a standard 9mm gun or something _else_ was going on.  “What about Wordsworth’s phone?  Was it reported missing?”

“I had a friend of Wordsworth’s ask him,” Simmons replied.  “ _He_ claims his phone went missing a week and a half ago; says he reported it and got a new phone.”

“I can contest that,” Bruck put in smoothly.  “The phone recovered from McKean is still active, something that would _not_ be the case if it had been reported stolen.  The goblins would have disabled it at that point.”

“But why?” Harry protested, his forehead crinkling in confusion.  “Why free two people _they_ arrested _and_ two Death Eaters?”  It made no _sense_ and it didn’t match – _at all_ – to his second impression of the group of Muggles he and his wife had met.  And Parker _knew_ about the Second War, what the Death Eaters had done…why would he risk his charges like that?

Simmons looked down.  “A couple months ago,” he began softly, “They were supposed to have their yearly evaluations, but right after their Muggle side exams, their team leader got shot.  Pushed things off and their Muggle exams were…rocky…so Madame Locksley allowed them to do a week at the Auror Academy instead of a straight out exam.”

“And?” Harry inquired, watching Simmons’ face, which was now a study in emotional control.  No matter _how_ badly the Canadians had screwed up, Harry wasn’t going to believe Team One was responsible for this mess.  If Simmons couldn’t see what _he_ so clearly could, then either Simmons was a fool…or the one trying to _frame_ a group of innocent people.

The Canadian Auror drew in a breath, holding it, then letting it out in a sigh.  “The Headmaster allowed three instructors to assault Team One,” he admitted grimly.  “It’s a miracle no one ended up dead, either Team One or the trainees.  Team One arrested the instructors _and_ the Headmaster, dragged them to their Muggle police station.  Their commander called Madame Locksley and announced that not only was he going to have the four wizards charged under Muggle law, but also that his team would no longer work with our division.”

Harry hissed in shock; Bruck was wide-eyed with both interest and horror.

“Madame Locksley had my squad retrieve the wizards before the Statute could be broken and collected Team One’s Auror badges herself.  They haven’t worked with us since.”  Simmons grimaced.  “Four and a half weeks ago, Ed Lane’s brother, Roy Lane, was shot by his girlfriend during a hot call.  Team One called Healers in; Roy’s still an active Auror; but Roy…didn’t make it…”

As Harry slumped back in his seat, Bruck nodded slowly.  “Revenge is quite the motivator, is it not, gentlewizards?”

“They might have alibis, though,” Harry pointed out.  While Simmons’ story was worse than he’d thought it would be, it was still true that Parker would never, _ever_ , risk his ‘ _nipotes_ ’.  Or Wordsworth, either.

Simmons nodded.  “I didn’t want to tip our hand, so I haven’t poked around the Strategic Response Unit Headquarters at all.  Once I _do_ , they’ll know they’re under investigation.”

“Unavoidable at this point,” Bruck declared.  “Are you comfortable interviewing them alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then we shall leave this part of the investigation in your capable hands, Auror Simmons.”

Harry watched as Simmons rose and left, his back straight and his stride measured.  Privately, to himself, the British Auror wondered…

* * * * *

Commander Holleran regarded the Auror in his office with distaste, but opted against having the man simply thrown out of his station.  “You want what, Auror Simmons?”

A piece of parchment was placed on the desk between them.  “I need to know where all the members of Team One were on those dates and times, Commander Holleran.  I’d like to interview them, too, but I thought to start with the official records.”

Holleran picked up the parchment, one eyebrow arching at the first date and time.  “I’d have to check the records myself, but Team One hasn’t had night duty in quite a while, so it’s safe to say that they were at _home_ by 9:12 PM on that particular day.”  Glancing at the other date and time, Holleran frowned thoughtfully.  “7:57 AM is near the start of their shift most days.  Wait here, please.”

Simmons nodded and leaned back in the guest chair as Commander Holleran rose and left his office for a few minutes, returning with the duty sheets for the past two weeks.  The commander sat down again, double-checked the parchment, then flipped through the sheets, locating the correct date swiftly.  A frown appeared on the commander’s face.  “This says Team One was off-duty, but I seem to remember they had a hot call that day.”

“Perhaps the transcript from that call?” Simmons offered.

The commander tapped his fingers against his desk thoughtfully, then picked up his phone and made a brief call.  The two men sat in silence until there was a knock on the door.  “Enter.”

Constable Camden entered with a large plastic binder in hand; she placed it on Commander Holleran’s desk.  “Critical Incident 1247, sir.”

“Thank you, Winnie.”

With a nod, she left, not even glancing at Simmons.

Holleran rose, pulling the report clear of its binder; both men sucked in a shocked breath when the commander opened it to see pages and pages of blank white paper.  Holleran looked up at Simmons, pale and furious.  “What the _hell_ is going on, Auror Simmons?”

Simmons stared at the blank pages, his face unreadable.  “I’ll need to interview Team One and I need to know if any explosives are missing from your station’s inventory.  If you keep track of your bullets, I need that inventory, too.”

* * * * *

Ed stalked into the interview room, his shoulders tight with fury and tension.  Couldn’t the wizarding world just _leave them alone_?  It didn’t help that Greg’s health was slipping, slowly, but steadily, didn’t help that his brother had been just as frozen in time that morning as he’d been the past four weeks, and even more, it didn’t help that Wordy was still ticked off at the Sarge and refusing to call him anything except ‘Greg’.  Frankly, Word’s grudge was starting to go more than a little overboard and Ed was wondering when he should pull his best friend aside and demand he shape up.

The team leader plopped down on the metal chair and lounged as insolently as he dared.  “What’s up, Simmonsy?”  Juvenile, but at least it made _him_ feel better.

Auror Simmons cast Ed a fulminating glare, then pushed a piece of parchment forward.  “Take a look, then tell me where you were.”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, then Ed tugged the page over and read it.  He smirked at the first time.  “Pretty sure I was at home, with an infant wailing in my ear and my wife laughing at my baby skills.”  He skipped down to the other and suppressed a laugh.  “On-duty.”

“Not according to the duty sheets, Constable Lane.”

Ed blinked.  “Then they’re wrong; we had a hot call that day,” he protested.

Simmons yanked a binder over.  “You mean, _this_ hot call?” he asked sarcastically, flipping the transcript open to reveal reams of blank paper.

Ed’s boots thumped against the ground as he sat up straight, staring at what _should_ have been the transcript.  “What the heck’s going on?” he whispered, pale with shock.

* * * * *

“One case of missing explosives,” Commander Holleran reported, laying the inventory sheet on his desk for Simmons to inspect.  As the Auror did so, the commander continued, “Four cases of missing ammunition as well as some climbing gear.  None of the hot calls in the past month required explosive entry of any kind and training isn’t enough to explain the quantity of missing ammo or the climbing gear.”

Simmons nodded soberly.  “Thank you, Commander Holleran.  We’ll be in touch.”  He rose, then glanced back.  “Sir?”

Holleran looked up.

“That missing transcript.  Could someone _else_ have a copy of it?”

The commander considered, then nodded once.  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“If you find it, make sure you make a few more copies of it, sir,” Simmons advised before departing.  Behind him, Commander Holleran reached for his phone.

* * * * *

Harry considered the more detailed report in his hands; the Muggles had assured him that they had backups, even adding that he’d been given a copy rather than the original.  The Auror leaned back in his chair, thinking hard.  Something wasn’t jiving, but he wasn’t quite sure _what_.  One thing was for sure, though, he couldn’t tip his hand.  Not yet.  And particularly not when he wasn’t sure of who to trust.

At a knock on the door, Harry called, “Enter.”

Neville peeked around the door jamb.  “Harry?  You said it was urgent?”

Harry waved his friend in.  “You hear about the Azkaban breakout?”

“Of course, who hasn’t?”

“Nev, any chance, any chance at all that Wordsworth could have had something to do with it?”

“What?  _No!_ ” Neville blurted.  “Harry, if he could’ve disowned them, he would’ve _done_ it; we _both_ know that.  Breaking them out would go against everything he’s been fighting for since he got the Headship.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, bracing his elbows on his desk.

Neville studied his friend.  “Harry, please tell me that was just idle speculation.”

“I can’t,” Harry replied honestly.  Making a decision, he stood up.  “Neville, I need you to hold onto something for me.  Don’t tell anyone you have this, don’t even _look_ at it.  And don’t store it in your Gringotts vault.”  He pushed the Muggle report towards his friend.

“Harry, what’s wrong?  Can I help?”

Harry’s smile was wan.  “I’m not sure what’s _wrong_ , Nev.  Not yet.  When I do, I’ll let you know, all right?”

Neville nodded, then picked up the report.  “Harry?”  Harry’s eyes focused on his friend.  “Good luck.”


	6. Guilt By Association

The only reason Giles Onasi hadn’t thrown his Auror badge in Madame Locksley’s face yet was his rock-solid determination to get Team One out of this _mess_ first.  Then he’d cheerfully hurl both his badge and Roy’s in Locksley’s face and stomp out, washing the dust of the Canadian Auror Division from his boots.  In the _meantime_ , he was arguing as loudly and persistently as he could on his Muggles’ behalf.

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” he snapped.  “Why would Team One break out two criminals _they_ arrested _and_ two British Death Eaters who hate Wordsworth’s guts?”

“Revenge sometimes overrides our logic, Auror Onasi,” Madame Locksley pointed out.

“Look at the evidence,” Simmons added solemnly.  “Lane’s gun was used at McKean and probably Azkaban as well.  Explosives are missing from SRU Headquarters, as well as enough Muggle ammunition for a small army.  The duty sheets list Team One as off duty during the attack on McKean and I’ve confirmed that they left work in plenty of time to make it from Toronto to Azkaban given what we’ve been able to cobble together about the Muggle craft used in both attacks.”

“Parker wouldn’t fly unless one of his people or his kids were on the line,” Onasi argued.

“That leaves the rest of his team,” Simmons countered.  “The Azkaban guards said the Muggle craft was fairly small, so it’s unlikely that all of Team One could fit inside it at once.  All _that_ tells me is that they split their roles, just as they’ve done on almost every call we’ve seen.”

Giles drew in a deep breath.  “I understand you have to look at them and I understand it looks bad, but I _know_ them.  They would not do this.  They wouldn’t throw away everything they’ve sacrificed like this.  I won’t, _can’t_ , believe it.”

“Not even after what happened to Roy?” Madame Locksley inquired, insinuation thick.

Onasi froze; she _knew_ Roy wasn’t dead, so what the heck was her game?  Worse, he knew Roy wasn’t dead, _Simmons_ knew Roy wasn’t dead, but Locksley didn’t know Simmons knew.  _Officially_ , Roy was dead and buried; _no one_ outside of Team One’s immediate support was supposed to know the truth.  If Locksley found out he’d _told_ …

Slowly, carefully, Giles replied, “What happened to Roy wasn’t any one’s fault except that Wicked Witch of the West girlfriend of his.  Team One has no reason to blame _us_ for what happened to my partner.”  The same reasoning he’d used with Simmons, but he didn’t care.  It was still true.  Drawing in a breath, he met Madame Locksley’s gaze squarely.  “This isn’t like last time.”

That…was a step too far.  Locksley’s gaze darkened with old memory, twisting with grief.  “It isn’t?” she breathed.

“Anne…” Simmons began, trying to salvage the mess Giles had just created.

“Quiet, Nathan.”  Coldly rigid, Madame Locksley regarded her Auror.  “It seems to _me_ , Auror Onasi, that this is _just_ like last time.  You won’t let him go.”  Giles flinched violently.  “And you won’t see reason.”  The brunet flinched again; in the background, Simmons drew a sharp breath only to be cut off by Locksley’s upraised hand.  “That being the case, you are relieved of duty.  Remove yourself from the premise at once.”

For a long minute, Giles stared at his boss.  Then his lip curled and he spat, “ _Gladly!_ ”  Whirling, he stalked to the door, pausing to look back.  “When you find out who _really_ did this, I’ll be the _first_ to say, ‘I told you so!’ ”  Then he stomped out and slammed the door behind him.

* * * * *

“I’ve been kicked out of my own division,” Giles told his silent partner.  “Your brother and his team are about to be arrested for something they didn’t do and I can’t stop it.”  He closed his eyes.  “I tried to warn them, Roy, I swear I did…”

* * * * *

_“Parker, they think they’ve got evidence that you and your people broke those criminals out of prison in some kind of demented revenge scheme!”_

_“That’s absurd,” Sergeant Parker argued.  “Why would we do that?  Revenge for_ what _?”_

_“For what happened at the Academy, what happened to your wards, maybe even for what happened to Roy,” Giles explained heavily.  “I tried my best to argue against it.  I told them you guys would never stoop that low, especially not for the Lestranges or the two from McKean.”_

_“And?”_

_“I’m_ persona non grata _at the Auror Division right now,” Onasi snarked.  “Relieved of duty for the foreseeable future.”  He paused, studying Parker’s face.  “Please, Sergeant Parker, you have to do something.”_

_The stocky man’s eyes shadowed.  “And what would you suggest we do?  Run?  That would only make us look more guilty, Detective Onasi.  No, the only thing we can do is ride this out and wait for them to find evidence that clears us.”_

_“And if they_ don’t _?”_

_Parker paused at the question.  “I’ll think of something.”_

* * * * *

Giles slumped down in the chair next to his partner’s bed.  “What do I do, Roy?  I can’t let whoever’s behind this win.  I can’t let Team One fall like this.  I _know_ they didn’t do this.  I _know_ it.”

On the bed, Roy never even twitched as his partner paced and muttered.  Beneath the scarlet light, his face remained the same, eyes wide open in fear and surprise.  When Giles tried to reach for his partner’s shoulder, the magic sparked and pushed him away roughly.  Anguish marked the Auror’s face as he stared at Roy in quiet despair.  Then Giles’ eyes hardened and he nodded, as if Roy _had_ spoken.

“You’re right, partner,” the Auror muttered.  “There has to be evidence _somewhere_.  There has to be something that clears them.  I just have to find it.”

As Giles hurried out of the room, the magic around Roy curled closer, flexing around the frozen man with a quiet _hum_.  It had to keep the man alive until help could come…

* * * * *

Giles sighed as he pored over another report from the investigation; he wasn’t supposed to be in the Auror Division at all, but he needed to _see_ the evidence if he was going to clear Team One.  He made another note on his pad of a possible discrepancy that he could investigate further, then turned the page to the next report.

Something caught his eye as he re-read the report from Azkaban and he frowned to himself, then leaned back and down to the drawer where he kept a number of old files.  He yanked the drawer open, flipping through the stack within at a lightning clip.  When he found the one he wanted, he pulled it out and opened it up on his desk, using his thumb to control the parchment as he let it fly, scanning for the page he wanted.

“Here we go,” he muttered, pulling the page free.  He inspected the page, then his gaze fell on the sheet underneath.  He paused, reading both pages more closely, then tugged his pad out from under the folder and made another note.  He considered, then added a bit more information to his note before replacing both page and file in his drawer.  Pushing it shut, he reapplied his security wards and added another one.  Done, he stood up.  He needed a file from the archives to confirm his suspicions and then he could wake up that idiot Simmons, ungodly hour of the night or not.

The Auror moved briskly through the dark office, ducking down the stairs to the archive room, where he browsed through the stacks for the file he needed.  When he found it, he grinned and nearly departed with it before an idea nudged at him.  Scowling, the Auror detoured from his destination and completed one last task before taking the file up to the Auror Division office.

As he stepped in, he heard a noise and jerked to the side, reaching for his wand.  “Who’s there?”

Silence.  Giles glanced around, swallowing hard.  The shadows abruptly looked much deeper and more threatening than they had earlier.  Wary, he stepped forward and jumped at the _crack_ beneath his boot.  Gasping, he looked down, then laughed at himself.  A quill.  He’d stepped on a quill someone had dropped on the floor.  Still laughing at himself, the Auror headed towards his office, then froze at a _click_ from behind him.

Giles whirled, right into a gunshot.  The man stepped forward, sneering as the Auror slammed down on the ground, the file in his hands spilling to cover the floor around him.  The shooter angled his gun at the fallen Auror, prepared to fire again, but Onasi didn’t move as blood soaked his chest and robes.  The stranger quickly collected most of the fallen file, but overlooked one piece of parchment that had ended up under his victim’s leg.

* * * * *

An early morning witch tripped over the body in the Auror Division, screaming loudly at her discovery and attracting the attention of the entire building.  By the time Simmons arrived, the Healers had whisked a barely alive Giles Onasi away and the entire division was in chaos.  The veteran Auror stared at the pool of blood that marked where his onetime rookie Auror had lain, slowly bleeding to death.  Then he spied a piece of parchment, soaked in blood and half destroyed.

Gently, gingerly, Simmons pried the page off the floor and took it to his office.  Someone was going to _pay_ for this…

* * * * *

Susan Travis was relieved when Onasi finally started breathing on his own, five grueling hours after he’d been rushed to St. Mungo’s, clinging to life with the merest _shards_ of his stubborn will.  It was the work of a moment to assign the gravely injured man to Roy Lane’s room.  No one besides a Healer would enter the quarantined room, ensuring that Onasi could heal without interruptions.

A blond Auror was waiting for her when she stepped outside the room, his expression sharp.  “Well?”

“He’ll live, Auror…”

“Simmons,” the other roughly introduced.  “When can I talk to him?”

Travis leveled the Auror with her coldest glare.  “He’s asleep,” she informed the wizard frostily.  “And likely to stay that way for the next few days, _at least_.  And I’ll thank you to stay out and not badger my patient with your nonsense for another day or so after he _does_ wake up.”

“I need his statement,” Simmons growled.  “We have to find out who attacked him.”

“You’ll have to do it without him,” Susan snipped.

Simmons snarled in frustration, pacing away, then back.  “What about the Muggle bullet?” he demanded.  “Or is _that_ under lock and key as well?”

Travis pursed her lips, frowning heavily at the Auror.  “Wait here,” she ordered, before vanishing back into her patient’s room.  When she came back out, she thrust the small bag with the Muggle bullet in it at Simmons.  “Take this and go away,” she snapped.  “Don’t come back till you’ve learned whatever _manners_ your mother failed to beat into you when she had the chance!”

* * * * *

“What have you found out about them?” Harry asked the Unspeakable he’d given the shell casings to after he’d noticed _runes_ on them, _right_ before he’d planned to take them to the Muggles.

The Unspeakable grunted.  “Nasty,” he opined.  “Someone’s been playing about with Muggle technology, these runes are too small for all of our current runic application methods.”  He turned the casing, casting a spell that let them see the runes large enough to read them.  “Two of ‘em I bet _you_ could tell me about,” the Unspeakable continued.

“Beg pardon?”

“They block regular detection spells,” was the brisk reply.  “Fortunately, easy enough to get around; I’ll give you a better detection spell before you leave.”

“Thank you,” Harry breathed.  “I was lucky to find them.”

The Unspeakable grunted and turned the casing.  “Now, _here’s_ the really nasty part, Potter.  Wouldn’t want to be the poor bloke who survived one of these things, no I would not.”

“Why?”

“The bullet imparts a Dark Curse, Auror Potter,” the Unspeakable replied, his voice tired.  “Say you get someone lucky enough to survive the massive amounts of damage this piece of work causes.  They’d never wake up; the curse would drain their magical core dry inside of a week.  It’s a nasty, nasty curse.  Very old, very _dark_ magic.”

“Is there a cure?”

The Unspeakable snorted.  “In a manner of speaking.  If you had a Wild Mage hanging about, _they_ might be able to heal it, but where are you going to find one of _them_ these days?”

The Unspeakable never noticed Harry’s slack-jawed stare at his back.  _Dear Merlin…go after_ Parker _and you leave his_ kids _wide open…how did I_ not _see that before?_   Harry drew in a deep breath.  “Could a Muggle or a Squib make something like this?” he asked, gesturing at the casing.

“No,” the Unspeakable returned bluntly.  “Has to be a wizard.  Probably some Muggleborn with a chip on his shoulder and plenty of time on his hands to research the Old Religion.”  He glanced back.  “Any more questions?”

“How fast can you put together your report and teach me that detection spell?”

* * * * *

Simmons hovered over the shoulder of the forensic scientist running the test, prompting the man to send him outside with a sharp, “Go away and let me work.”

Outside, Simmons paced angrily, his rage at whoever had attacked his younger friend growing with each stride.  By the fifth circuit, he’d moved on to eagerly plotting the demise of Giles’ attacker, debating between several borderline dark spells as to which would cause the maximum amount of damage without killing _too_ quickly.  Oh, no, he wanted the perpetrator to know _exactly_ how it felt to lie in a pool of your own blood, slowly bleeding out.

“I have the results.”

Mid-stride, Simmons halted, then he swiveled towards the scientist, his expression expectant.  Instead of speaking, the other man held out a printout of the results.  In two large steps, Simmons was snatching the printout away to scan it.  The page crinkled in his grip as he stared at the name on it, the owner of the gun that had _shot_ his friend, his _rookie_ and fellow Auror.

Constable Samuel Braddock.


	7. Sometimes, We Can’t Help

“Gregory Parker?”

Greg glanced at the crowd of people – wizards – outside his door and had an awful feeling about where this was going.  “Yes,” he acknowledged nonetheless.

“You are under arrest for murder, attempted murder, aiding and abetting fugitives from justice, and obstruction of justice.  You have the right to remain silent.”

As the American wizard recited Greg’s rights and slapped him in handcuffs, two furious young Wild Mages appeared.  “Uncle Greg!” Alanna cried, launching forward.  “Let him go!”

“Alanna, stand down,” Greg ordered before his niece could attack any of the Aurors.  “Lancelot, you too,” he added, gifting his nephew with his best warning glare.  Craning around, he asked, “Could one of you arrange for _mio nipotes_ to go to Kevin and Shelley Wordsworth?”

The American grunted, unimpressed.  “Kevin Wordsworth is being arrested right now,” he informed the Sergeant.

Greg had suspected, but his heart still sank.  “Shelley?”

“No.”  The speaker stepped forward, betrayal written all over his face.  Simmons.  “I’ll make sure your niece and nephew arrive safely, Parker, but that’s the _only_ favor I’m doing for you.”

Greg swallowed at the furious expression on the wizard’s face and nodded.  To his kids, he murmured, “Pack lightly; Shelley can bring you back here for more clothing and anything else once things die down a bit.”  Distress shone from violet and sapphire; Greg shifted forward, though he was careful not to fight the cuffs.  “Hey.  Hey.  It’s going to be okay.  Be good for me, you two.  I’ll be back before you know it.”

Alanna blinked back tears and hugged him fiercely; Greg savored her warmth.  “Love you, Uncle Greg.”

“And I love you, too, _mia nipote_ ,” Greg whispered back as his nephew joined his sister.  “I have to go now,” he admitted when the Aurors behind him started shifting unhappily.  “See you soon.”

Lance leaned up and whispered something in his ear, then stepped back, tugging Alanna with him.  Greg kept his eyes on his kids as long as he could, not fighting, but not walking straight either as he was pulled away from his family.

* * * * *

Lou and Spike were lying side-by-side in Spike’s room, furiously pounding on their controllers as the cars on the screen skidded around the final turn of the race.  “Oh, oh, oh, I got this, Lou; I got this!” Spike cheered.

“In your dreams,” Lou gritted back, slamming down the boost button.  “You don’t have enough juice left, Scarlatti!”

Sure enough, Lou’s car zipped ahead of Spike’s to cross the finish line first.  Lou whooped as Spike moaned and thumped his head on his floor.  Outside the room, they both heard Mrs. Scarlatti burst into a flood of furious Italian.  Spike’s head shot up and the two pushed themselves up at the second sound they heard: angry _male_ voices.

“Mamá?” Spike called, leaving his room with Lou on his heels.  “Is everything all right?”

The two cops stiffened at the sight of a crowd of wizards in robes.  Spike surged into the kitchen and hurried to his weeping mother.  Lou was right on Spike’s heels until someone grabbed him; he automatically fought back, only to be wrestled to the ground, cuffs snipping in place around his wrists.

“Lou!” Spike cried; he was about to lunge when four wands pointed at him and he froze, lifting his hands in surrender.  “What is this?” he snarked, “The Witching Hour?”

“Cute,” a wizard with an American accent drawled as he stepped forward.  “Constables Scarlatti and Young, you are under arrest.”

* * * * *

Sam and Jules had just gone to bed when Jules’ door was forced open and a flood of angry wizards surged inside, shouting and generally making both a racket and a mess.  Before either constable could go for their weapons or clothing, they were cornered and covered by at least seven wands.  Sam flushed bright red and Jules cowered under her coverlet until a female Auror caught on and banished her male colleagues until the two could at least get dressed.

The Auror’s sympathy didn’t extend any farther than that, though she seemed to soften when Jules thanked her for the consideration she _had_ shown them.  Once the constables were dressed and had shoes on, the rest of the Aurors flowed back in and cuffed the pair roughly, charging them with murder, attempted murder, obstruction of justice, and abetting several fugitives.

Jules kept her eyes forward, refusing to flinch, even when the cuffs were tightened to the point of almost grinding her wrists.  Sam, likewise, threw his shoulders back and tossed his head high, his most emotionless, Squib Squad mask in place.  Neither said so much as a word to the Aurors arresting them.  Jules looked back at her house as she and Sam were dragged outside, wondering if she’d ever see it again, but she still kept quiet.

* * * * *

Sophie was feeding Izzy when the rap on the door came.  Ed strode to the door, reared back in surprise, then opened it.  “What’s going on?”

One wizard stepped forward.  “Edward Lane?”

“Yeah.”

The wizard signaled his teammates.  Sophie nearly screamed as two of them forced her husband to his knees and cuffed him.  Clark darted in, sliding to a stop in shock.  “Dad?”

“Clark, stay with your mother, stay with Izzy,” Ed ordered, plastering indifference on his face.  “Let these guys do their job.”

The foremost wizard chuckled darkly, then reeled off the charges.  Beyond flexing his hands, Ed refused to let any of the wizard’s words impact his sniper’s mask.  He didn’t fight as he was dragged to his feet and out the door, though he looked Sophie in the eye, trying to communicate how much he loved her, loved their family.

She returned his gaze fiercely, silently promising to wait as long as it took for him to come home.  Clark, hovering behind her, met his Dad’s eyes with his own promise watch over his mother and sister.

* * * * *

Wordy had just taken his evening dose of meds when the knock at the door came.  “Shel, I got it,” he called, heading for the door.  He opened the door, blinking at the crowd of wizards on his front step.  “So much for hiding,” he remarked, cocking a brow.

“Kevin Wordsworth?” the most officious one demanded.

“That’s me,” Wordy confirmed.  “Something wrong?”

He wasn’t expected to be covered by three wands and ordered to his knees.  He swallowed, but obeyed, bringing his hands up and interlacing his fingers behind his head.  The constable didn’t fight as one hand, then the other, were pulled down and cuffed by one of the Aurors as the charges and his rights were reeled off by another.

Shelley, hearing the commotion, arrived in time to hear the list of charges; she gasped, but Wordy didn’t bother to protest them.  He’d get his chance, he knew, but not yet.  Instead, he focused on his wife as he was pulled up; Shelley surged forward, pulling her husband’s head down and kissing him fiercely before he was yanked out of her grasp and out their front door.

As Wordy was led away, he spied Simmons and Sar…Greg’s kids walking towards his still open door.  The kids looked devastated and Simmons’ face was expressionless.  The brunet constable felt a lump in his throat.  It wasn’t just him this time…it was _all_ of them…

* * * * *

The man who entered Toronto’s St. Mungo’s did his best to hide his utter _disgust_ at his surroundings.  Typical, how the _wizards_ had all these fancy, magical miracles, but they wouldn’t use them to help anyone except the _chosen few_.  He traversed the hallways, searching for the destination he’d been given by his contact…one of the _few_ wizards who _understood_ what it was to be on the outside looking in.  Who understood his family’s hatred towards anything and everything magic.

When he arrived at the room number, he was taken aback by the quarantine sign outside the door.  Then he smirked.  So, there _were_ diseases that _wizards_ feared and shunned.  He hid nearby, watching as several _wizards_ entered and exited the room, bustling back and forth in an effort to save their patient.  When the flow slowed, the man left his hiding spot and hurried inside.

Red light played on his face and he reeled back in fear, staring at a _wizard_ on one of the beds, his features frozen and still.  The man frowned; the _wizard_ was wearing _regular clothing_.  Curious, he tiptoed over to the _wizard_ and pushed at him.  He hissed as the red light stung his hands and _shoved_ him away, as if it knew he was a threat.

The man snorted, then reached down to retrieve the syringes he’d been given.  Surely his contact wouldn’t mind if he used one of them on the _wizard_ in front of him…  But the red light slapped even harder at the syringe he tried to stick in the _wizard’s_ throat, hissing outrage and giving him a shock that quite literally made his hair stand on end.  When he tried a second time to insert the syringe, the entire syringe shattered.

He swore, leaping back away from the bed as the scarlet light swirled faster and it seemed to the man that the light sneered at him as it intensified enough to hide the _wizard’s_ features.  The man turned away, his gaze falling on the other _wizard_.  The one he’d shot the night before…the one who’d been getting too close.

Walking up to the _wizard_ , he pulled out his second syringe.  “Say ‘good-bye’, _wizard_ ,” he taunted, sinking the syringe into the _wizard’s_ neck and depressing the plunger.  He yanked it out and let it fall to the bed, then headed for the door.  “See you in _hell_.”

The door slammed behind the stranger.

* * * * *

“I have had word,” Moffet informed his four guests.  He smiled as they snapped to attention.  “The Muggles have been arrested as of this evening and the case against them is proceeding nicely.  My contacts have also arranged for the worst of the Muggle-Lovers to be quietly…dealt with…in the meantime.”  The doctor’s smile turned vicious.  “With _this_ lesson before the magical governments of the world, it will be _decades_ before any are fool enough to repeat this…experiment.”

Laughter rose, forcing Moffet to stop.  Loki smacked the table, drawing attention to himself.  “I confess,” he drawled, “I was uncertain how successful your plan would be.  This…this is _glorious_.  I only wish I could have been there when those miserable Muggles were arrested and dragged away by those blood-traitors in Toronto.”

Rastaban banged his mug on the table, adding his own approval.  “Maybe now that Muggle spawn can pay for stealing our family!”

Rudolphus didn’t speak, but his eyes glinted with savage delight.

Anderson recalled them with a quiet cough.  “I believe, gentlewizards, that Dr. Moffet was not quite done.”

Moffet traded a razor-sharp smile with his fellow sociopath.  “Quite so, Auror Anderson,” he agreed, pacing the front of the room and gesturing to the ceiling with his wand.  A white screen lowered into place and an image appeared on it.  “Given that these Muggles are from Canada, they will be taken to McKean until trial,” he announced.  “I have arranged for them to be listed as too dangerous to house closer to the actual trial, which will be held in Toronto.  Additionally, my contacts have ensured that the McKean guards are _well_ aware of who, precisely, they will be guarding.”

Anderson gave a bark of laughter, drawing curious looks from his fellow escapees.  He smirked triumphantly.  “The guards won’t be pleased with a group of Muggles who killed three of their own,” he drawled.

“Correct,” Moffet rumbled, reclaiming attention.  “Now, as to your revenge…we must be careful to ensure that we do not disrupt the chain of events.  In fact, I hope to make this look as if the four of you attempted to ‘rescue’ the Muggles, thus sealing their fate.”

Eagerly, the wizards leaned in.

* * * * *

In a small hospital room, two men lay on beds that were set on opposite walls.  There was no sound in the room, save for the quiet hum of monitoring spells.  Another man entered the room quietly, his gaze flicking to one bed before he moved to the other.

“We got ‘em, Giles.  I know you believed in them, but look what they _did_ to do to you.  I couldn’t support them after that, I couldn’t.”  The man regarded his friend, vaguely disappointed when Onasi did not reply.  Leaning closer, the man whispered, “One thing still doesn’t make sense, Giles.  You shouldn’t have been there…what were you _doing_ in the Auror Division that night, huh?”

Brown eyes opened a sliver, then the alarms went off.  The visitor was roughly escorted out of the room as the Healers fought to save the desperately injured man.  Unnoticed by any one, however, was a small syringe that rolled, unnoticed, under the patient’s bed.

* * * * *

The black and white helicopter lifted off, turning towards the sunset.  Behind the pilot’s controls, Dr. Moffet smirked.  All was going precisely according to plan…

“Doctor?” one of his crew asked.  “What now?”

Moffet considered a moment, tilting his head to the side.  “Phase one is complete,” he purred, pushing the helicopter’s controls forward.  “Phase two…is just beginning…”

His thumb moved to a red button and pressed down firmly.  The chopper leapt forward, screaming skyward as a wolf’s howl echoed through the evening sky.  As the aircraft rose through the night sky, blackness swirled over its hull and another snarl was heard…the snarl of a rabid wolf…

 

_~ Ad Alia_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued...
> 
> Stay tuned for next week's epi...oops, story, as we dive into "Shadow of the Hawke" on Tuesday, May 28th, 2019. In the meantime, any comments will be much welcomed, but, as always, flames will be fed to my Death Knight's Netherwing. *wink*
> 
> See You on the Battlefield!


End file.
